YORUBASNFLWR
Sep 3, 2018 · 2 min read

of dirty and unloved hands

you will never be able to tell me the tongue to say love with
or which way to shape it
(nobody knows how to will love into a home, some just get lucky)
but come, let me tell you how love is an abstract thing.
this whole house reeks of badly behaved
mum's hair is always in a hundred knots,
I've never seen her any other way,
or known her any different from this.
am I a mistake? something that isn't supposed to be here?
if I close my eyes, will I remember the way home?
this home has long shed its skin,
it answers to house now.

for years now, everyday,
father sneaks in at 2 am, in the hour they say evil spirits ransack the town,
and children born to good mothers shouldn't be on the road,
(I try not to think about what this makes him)
his lips spilling lies of heavy traffic and a busy day at the office
and his body smelling like the seventh commandment has been broken,
I always have to keep my words back in my chest.
I wish I was an afterthought,
but even that is a compliment to me.
they say your parents are your second god,
but how do you worship a god that you never see?
when you imagine monsters have come out to play,
how do you hug a shadow in place of real skin? I know how.
I have mastered the skill of scraping the bottom of pots
like I scrap the earth for my placenta,
never mind I don't know where it was buried,
all I want is to go to a place where somebody
will serve me love on a plate.

YORUBASNFLWR

Written by

Yoruba. Poet. Writer. Feminist. I can be reached on Twitter @yorubasnflwr. 📩: Omotoyosisalami00@gmail.com

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